


Footsteps In The Dark

by roxymissrose



Series: This Small Dark Place [7]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Child Abuse, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2019-10-07 16:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17369102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: The afternoon of Mistress's funeral was sunny, chill….





	1. Chapter 1

The afternoon of Mistress's funeral was sunny, chill...thin wisps of clouds rushed by overheard, trees rattled their nearly bare branches in the brisk breeze. Jensen closed his eyes and pressed into the leather seat back. Breathing deeply, he caught the scent of wood smoke through the slightly opened car window, maybe a hint of roasted chestnuts in the air. His eyes flew open as bells tolled—one loud, echoing roll, silence for a full minute, and then another toll. 

At that, the stroke of noon, the sedans started out on the mistress's final trip from home; the long lines of big, silent, black vehicles—all electric cars due to the solemnity of the occasion—headed out. 

Jensen sat silently, hands folded properly in his lap, swallowing carefully because the high collar of his new gray jacket bit into his throat. He was in attendance owing to his place as school companion to Jared and appointed trainee of the estate. All the heads of the Household were charged to attend, (though the Padalecki's thralls considered their attendance an honor) and traveled in one sedan with the exception of masterTechnologist, who was a freeman. 

Jensen's position next to masterHouseboy was intimidating—most of his concentration was caught up in not moving, or breathing too loud out of fear of angering Jim. Facing them on the other seat were masterGardner and masterCook, who spoke so quielty to each other that Jensen couldn't catch a word. In the seat behind the two sat the head of the Estate—the Landsman, along with his subordinates, masterHusbandman and Wagonhandler. 

Jensen looked sadly at the empty place between the masterGardner and masterCook. That would have been the space where masterMaid sat. In all his days on the estate, she'd never been more than a cold, rather distant figure. But the trip to Philadelphia had changed all that. She'd revealed herself as a canny, intuitive woman, someone who'd hid a warm heart under an icy, efficient exterior. Jensen was sure they'd been on the cusp of friendship. The loss of that possibility made him sad. 

Jensen sighed deeply. Dark thoughts were the order of the day, he supposed. He was worried—about the estate, about its workers and its land. He worried about Jared, alone with no one to stand for him— _with_ him. Jared had wanted Jensen to ride with him and his father in First car, but Gerolt had forbidden it. Jensen breathed another sigh, subtly picking at an already ragged thumbnail. The _expression_ on Gerolt's face when he'd denied Jared that tiny bit of comfort. That quickly veiled spark of satisfaction in the man's eyes at Jared's disappointment....

Jared's father...Jensen saw nothing good coming of his reappearance. As far as he knew, Jared hadn't spent more than a dinner or two with Padalecki before he'd unexpectedly left for the seaside estate without a word, returning just in time for his wife's funeral. And now, Jared was alone in a sedan among strangers and a man whose only claim to Jared was the donation of sperm….

Jensen shook himself free of dangerous thoughts, looking up to catch Jim frowning at him. He shook his head and Jim turned his gaze away. 

Looking out the sedan window, Jensen was surprised to see they were well off the estate now. He'd been sunk in his thoughts for much longer than he'd thought. They drove past the small town that was part of Padalecki Freehold, the official, rarely used name for the estate. The Padalecki was the only landowner around that area. Everyone knew who they were; Patricia Padalecki was a known entity. But now...there was Gerolt. A Padalecki by name only, trusted by no one save Jared, loved by no one save Jared, who in his father's absence had made a hero of the man, as children were often inclined to do—rather, free children had the leisure to do so. When Jensen's sire was gone, there'd been no loving memories left behind to embroider, to make the man more than he'd been. One day he'd had a sire, the next day he hadn't. It was what it was—life.

* * * 

Mistress awaited them all at the graveyard. Jensen could just make out the bier from where he and the other thralls stood. It was at the crest of a hill that sloped down to a small amphitheater, circled by holly trees. Her bier rested on tracks that would take it directly into the crematorium. Jensen craned his neck, but couldn't see where Jared was. His heart ached for him, so young, and now, so all alone.

Several men and women, dressed alike in dark suits and stiff, white, shirts—very important people, Jensen knew—lined up on either side of the bier. They grabbed the oar-like handles to slide it along a track until it was caught up gears that would guide it into the furnace. 

As she slowly passed, the people in the stands unpinned sprigs of herbs tied up with horsehair from their lapels. They stood, and threw the little bundles of sage and holly and lavender onto the open bier. Some threw small cards with pictures of food or wine, of flowers, of the land, onto the bier as well. A holdover, Jensen knew, from days long gone, when those items would have been placed in the fire with the dead. 

Before they'd left the estate, Mark had whispered to Jensen, as he'd buttoned his collar for him, then passed him a card with the symbol for thrall written on it, "Once upon a time, when thralls were called slaves, the masters would have gone into the fire with company—their slaves. These cards they've given you and the others, Lucky, they're symbolic of those days…" Mark had looked Jensen up and down and then he'd smiled. "You are a lucky shit, aren't you?"

Jensen twirled the thrall card in his hand, waiting for Mistress to pass, and thought that, yes, this was very much an improvement on those days. 

Mistress traveled slowly down the shallow slope of the hillside; the men and women honored with ushering her to the furnace were red faced, sweating with exertion of keeping their burden from rolling willy-nilly down the track. The bier was a massive thing, meant to survive the flames. It was heavy, metal bars suggesting the ribs of an ancient viking ship. The brassy autumn sun winked off the curved arc of metal at the head of the bier—the prow of the ship. 

As she finally passed by the Estate staff, Jen tossed his card between the bars and fortune brought it to rest on her hands. He murmured a quick wish for her soul—and on she went, out of sight, until the crematorium doors slid open and the automatic rails caught her and pulled her alone into the flames. 

The doors shut quietly, and the observers raised their hands to the sky in a final farewell. Jensen and the rest of the household turned to go, when suddenly the crowd let out a collective gasp of horror. 

Decorum was lost as arms flailed, fingers pointed to the sky, and a low, thrumming hum that had been nibbling at the edges of Jen's mind became a thick, heavy buzz—a sound that was oddly familiar. 

Something came out of the sky, dropping quickly and heading straight at them. 

A biplane, Jensen thought excitedly. Why was it here? More importantly, why was it flying so low...it rolled, and lifted skyward again, and a glittering cloud spread behind it. The crowd gasped again, and angry voices rose—"Such disrespect! How could they! The horror! Someone cover the boy's eyes!" 

The voices rose to a roar, drowning out the sound of the plane, making the descent of hundreds and hundreds of tiny, golden, paper dirigibles silent.

Padalecki's voice cut in over the roar of the others. "Proof! Proof of murder—there! It _was_ the followers of that gods damned Dirigible Captain nonsense. Murderers!" 

The crowd agreed, shifting this way and that, distressed waves of black and gray, and then parted in such a way that Jen could suddenly see Jared clearly, saw him bend over and pick up a small, golden airship and stealthily shove it into his pocket as he glanced around, peering out between the disheveled mess of his bangs. Jensen swiftly took a step back; for some reason he didn't understand, he wanted to hide himself from Jared's view.

The attendees were ushered quickly back into the sedans, and the return trip to the estate took much less time without the stately speed meant to show respect. As the sedans pulled into the driveway again, Jensen looked towards the fields and the lines of thralls there. He knew that they'd attended their own funeral, had remembered Mistress in their own way. They stood stock still, watching the returning sedans, elders and toddlers alike silent...it reminded Jensen of birds on a wire.

Once the sedans let out their passengers, the thralls dispersed quickly—Jensen hurrying to the cook's garden to hide out in the shrubs.

Along his way to the evergreen corner of the gardens, he overheard the masters murmuring to each other as they walked along the estate paths. They gossiped about what had happened at the crematorium, convinced that the airships were proof that DC followers had murdered Mistress Padalecki. She was famous and admired and part of the social elite, and of course the hoi-polloi were jealous of her. And it was rumored that the meetings she'd held were in support of stripping the last remaining rights held by the bornThralls, reducing the rights of indentured with an eye towards making their indenture void and their service permanent—why, everyone knew that; everyone who was anyone knew Patricia Padalecki's stance in regards to thralldom…but Jensen doubted. 

He rounded the corner where holly shrubs grew high and thick, the anticipation of _finally_ being alone to think, to relax, bringing a small smile to his face. He plucked open the buttons of the gods-damn uncomfortable collar as he walked, and felt like he could breathe free for the first time all day."With any luck," he whispered to himself, "I'll have a blessed few minutes to my—oh!"

Jensen came to an abrupt stop.

Mark was hunched over on one of the small benches tucked into a nook created by the shrubs. He was turning a shredded piece of golden paper over and over in his fingers. He raised his head slowly; his bright blue eyes were wet, and distant, but at Jensen's gasp they sharpened. There was no trace of fondness in Mark's expression, it was closed-off, icy...apart from his burning eyes. He leaped up from the bench, balled-up fists shaking at his sides as he loomed over Jensen. 

Jensen managed a stumbling step back, his heart pounding in his chest. "Ma...Mark?" he stuttered, and Mark was suddenly _right there._ He took Jensen's shoulders in a painfully hard grip, and yanked Jensen tight against his chest. He let out a gasp that was more sob than anything else, squeezed the breath out of Jen before letting him go. Mark clapped him once or twice on the back, then swung around and stalked off without a word. 

Jensen watched him walk away, until a glittering something caught his eye and drew his gaze to the ground. There was a bit of thick, gold paper caught in the grass. 

Jensen knelt swiftly, snatched up the bit of paper and tucked it into his pocket, planning to keep it always as remembrance of the day, but in the coming weeks, lost it, as he did many other items of his past.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerolt explains the new order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware the tags have changed.

  
The gray skies overhead suit Jensen's mood perfectly; morose...and as dreary in spirit as the ash-tinted clouds overhead, and this he laid at Jared's feet. Jared, who'd abandoned him for his father, as if Jensen wasn't feeling just as lost without Mistress as he was. 

The sudden blast of wind driving icy claws twisting inside his collar did nothing at all to lighten his mood. There was no place he'd rather _not_ be more than here, buffeted by the freezing wind that swept unhindered over the square—he'd rather be in the kitchen helping clean out the store rooms or scrape out the hearth than be here, waiting for Gerolt's little speech to take place.

Jensen guiltily pulled himself a little straighter. Proper posture helped to remind him who he was and to rein in the dangerous desire to roll his eyes. He watched the thick-set man in the long, black, wool coat briskly rub his hands together, peering around the little square and its surroundings with an appraising eye. The stiff breeze blew his hair about, unveiling a rather high forehead—Jensen thought it was the only thing that Jared and his father had in common. Otherwise, what were exotically slanted eyes in Jared, were tiny, cold slits in Gerolt. Jared's wide, smiling mouth was a long, thin-lipped frown in Gerolt. There was no trace of the warmth that was always in Jared's face and, Jensen thought uncharitably, nothing of the intelligence. Instead there was a sly, almost feral hint of canniness in Gerolt's icy, squinted eyes. 

Jensen dropped his gaze from Gerolt to take in the rest of the square. It seemed the estate's entire staff was standing around the edges, in silent, orderly rows. There was Landsman, and there was Husbandman, along with the rest of Landsman's staff, and there standing towards the rear of the all those gathered, stood Eric, with a supporting hand under Michael's arm. Michael peered about with a bemused expression. How a man who lived and worked among thralls could be so...so... _naive_ Jensen had no idea. He wiggled a few fingers low, and the masterTech saw him, gave him a tiny, sad smile before Jensen firmly looked away. 

The wind tore through the square again, whipped a thin, broken branch from one of the recently planted maples, sent it cracking against one of the poles that dominated the far side of the square. Jensen flinched—he was not the only one to do so. Dried leaves danced on the wind, tumbling through the double set of posts set into the stone; they flitted and fluttered around the pile of chains at their bases.

Jensen couldn't stop darting little glances at the posts, the way they stood like stark black brushstrokes against the feathery gray sky. Of course the Master wanted to have his first meeting with the estate in this place, Jensen thought. He could have addressed them from the comfort of the study, and the speakers set near the thrall cottages would have conveyed Master's no doubt deathless prose...Jensen bit his lip. 

_Stop,_ he told himself. Building an attitude against the new master would only lead to trouble. 

Field and household thrall alike studied the Master, the way he leaned a casual elbow on the pedestal that had once held the Punishment Book, where an Estate Recorder would have taken note of stripes dealt out, the number and the reason why….but the book was long gone, the Recorder given leave. 

Master Gerolt was interrupted in his perusal of the square by masterHouseboy. Tilting his head to Jim as he spoke into his ear, that pale moon-face shifted from disinterest to annoyance. He nodded, once, sharply, and Jim motioned for braziers to be lit, the little fires providing some warmth to the toddlers hanging on to their mother's skirts. 

Jared stood next to his father, arms crossed over his chest, as he waited for Gerolt's introduction to begin. He was wearing an identical black wool coat, topped with a bright red scarf Jensen knew was a gift from Jared's mother, brought back from her trip to Francia last winter. Jen smiled a bit and Jared caught him; winking at Jensen, he flashed a dimple. The tall, red-headed woman—someone Jensen hadn't seen before—standing a little behind and to Jared's left, dropped a hand on his shoulder. The move brought him upright and unsmiling. House gossip was that there was a new houseMaid—a rumor not confirmed by Mark or Jim as yet. Jensen assumed it must be this woman, dressed in a plain, dark-grey uniform. She looked even more spare and severe than Miss Amanda had. 

Master Gerolt cut his eyes toward Jared, let a half-grin curve his mouth—his eyes roamed the ranks of thralls, lingering on the tiny group of toddlers who were crouched in the dry soil around the braziers, poking sticks into the dirt in some arcane toddler's game. 

Gerolt coughed slightly, seeing to come back to himself, and began. "Estate. I'm the new Padalecki here and let me lay it out to you plainly—whatever went before is history." 

A cold shiver rippled over Jensen at the Padalecki's words. That was _not_ a promising beginning….

"There are _new_ rules; it's a brand new game. I'll have none of the damned _nonsense_ that your former mistress indulged." He looked pointedly at the spotless posts, the little weeds growing up between the joints of the stones, the iron rings driven into them flecked with rust, thick layers of leaves moldering in the heaps of chain. After thirteen year old Jensen's punishment, there had been few others; Jensen couldn't recall the last time a thrall had been punished in the same way. 

"My son an' I will guide this estate in a new direction." Gerolt lifted his head, winked as though he'd told the thralls a joke—the twist of a half-smile blooming wide. He reached up and looped an arm around Jared's shoulders, pulling him into his side. Jared pinked up, a pleased smile on his face, but Jensen saw the moment Gerolt realized Jared was taller than he was, and how he subtly eased Jared away. 

"As long as you follow your orders, as long as you better the estate, it'll be smooth sailin' for all. Your lives are as good as you make them, and I have no doubt we will all prosper, even more than before. Beaver." Master Gerolt snapped his fingers and 'Housboy materialized at his side. "Before the day is over, Beaver, I want an accountin' from you of every single body on this estate, along with pedigrees for the born, schedules for the indentured—oh, and ages of all the born, you hear? Don't bring me the pedigree books; I absolutely hate readin' those dusty, dry old things, eh?" He snickered, sharply nudging Jared, who smiled weakly in response. 

Jensen snorted, carefully quiet a mouse. How? How in the world had this...philistine...attracted Mistress for even a half-second?

Jensen doubted that anyone picked up on the flicker of disgust that swept Jim's face before he once again looked about with a perfect thrall blankness; he bowed, and kept his head down until Gerolt and Jared left the square, with Jared practically skipping, he was so thrilled to have time with his father. 

When Jared's voice, and the sound of their footsteps had faded, Jim turned to the restless thralls. 

"All right," Jim barked. "We know, those of us who have been on the estate nearly all our lives, just what we've fallen into. There are different times coming on now, maybe—probably— _hard_ times. Make yourselves as useful and as irreproachable as possible. Come to us if need be. Mark and I will do what we can, with what we'll be granted, but…" He sighed heavily. "Just. Try not to draw attention to yourselves. And...put your trust only in the Four. Relieve yourself of pain in the mercy of the Four. May their honor and strength and bravery guide you. May their words afford you solace and instruction, may they buoy you up like a hawk in the wind." 

There was a somewhat puzzled reaction to masterHouseboy's speech—to the rather odd moment of religion. After a bit of confused silence, they muttered some form of agreement to masterHouseboy's words, then raised their hands in the traditional end-of-prayer. 

"What in the world…?" In all the years Jensen had been on the estate, Jim had never spoken to them this way...his beliefs, whatever they were, had always been private, and Mistress kept her beliefs to herself as well. 

Jim was silent as the thralls milled about, his attention held by something off to the side of the square. Jensen's gaze slid sideways to see what captured Jim's attention—it was Mark, who was staring at the toddlers playing together in a place meant for punishment. He looked ill. 

Jim left the square with his arm around Mark's shoulders, shocking Jen again. First an outburst of religion and now, a totally uncharacteristic show of affection...had some illness befallen old Jim, he wondered?

Jensen shrugged—Oddness upon oddness, he thought, and pulled his collar higher, shivering as another stiff blast of wind needled cold into his skin. He stepped off the stones, into the grass. A sudden memory flashed, stopping him in his tracks. He was shaking. He saw….

_a toddler's alert bracelet—Jared's—flying through the air, glinting in the bright summer's sun as it turned lazily before dropping down, the master swooping a wildly giggling Jared onto his lap, holding him tightly, hands tugging on the hems of his shorts, fingers skimming his bared legs, his lips pressed to Jared's cheek and whispering into his ear—_

Jensen took a step, and another, before being overwhelmed by another memory...the posts, and _fear,_ gods, pain, so much pain, _screaming_ —

He whipped around, staring at the little crowd of happily playing toddlers whose shrieks of laughter filled the air.

* * * 

"Gods," Jared groaned, and rolled away from Jensen. "I think I'm getting better at that—I _know_ you are."

Jensen giggled quietly, as he rose to his knees. He lifted Jared's nightshirt and tsked at the mess spread across his stomach and smeared on his thigh. "Let me take care of that," he said, and leaped off the bed. He shivered when his feet touched the ground—the fire in the stove had died down, and the chilled air in Jared's bedroom made goose flesh rise on Jen's bare skin as he padded quickly to the washroom. He wet a flannel and wrung the water out, dashing back to Jared's side so that it was still warm. 

"Oh!" Jared groaned, "Jen...that feels so good." Jensen hmmed in agreement, and gently wiped Jared clean, then let Jared pull him down into a kiss; a deep, wet kiss that he slowly eased from a hard, sliding press of lips to gentle little pecks, until finally Jared sighed and let him go with a final press of lips to Jensen's cheek. Jen could feel the flush spread across his cheeks, felt a little tingles as his chest went warm and tight, the way it did whenever Jared was sweet with him. Jared took the now-cold cloth from Jen's hand and tossed it in the general direction of the washroom, then pulled Jensen back into his arms, arranging him so that their legs were tangled together and Jensen's head lay on Jared's shoulder. Jensen felt content, soaking up Jared's heat, listening to Jared's heart and to Jared softly humming— _The Way You Look Tonight,_ if Jensen wasn't mistaken—he liked that song. It had often played on Mistress's audioscope when they'd had their midnight teas....

A few quiet minutes passed before Jared asked, somewhat hesitantly, "What do you think of Father, Jen? You really haven't said...well, much of anything lately."

"He's fine, Jared. As long as you're happy. That's what's important."

Jared nodded. "Well, I don't see as much of him as I'd hoped I would. He's so busy and all. I know he went to the city yesterday. I—there wasn't time for me to get ready to go with."

Jared looked so sad that Jensen took his hand. "Well, I'm sure there's so much to attend to, what with your mother's work and all. Charities and schools, and...things."

Jared looked at Jensen's sturdy fingers clasped around his own long, musician's fingers, and smiled. "Yes...oh, has the masterMaid talked to you yet?"

"No...is there...have I done something wrong?"

"Oh no, " Jared laughed, dropping Jensen's hand and propping himself up on his elbows. "Not at all, it's just, well—you won't have to bother about all that school stuff now, Jen. Instead of having to attend classes with me, you'll be here at the house, learning, learning...I'm not sure what," Jared said, sounding slightly puzzled, "taking care of the books, maybe...?"

Jensen only half heard Jared speaking—a hot, unpleasant buzz swept through him, like a miniature lightening strike. No school? No school...but what of his coming apprenticeship with masterHouseboy? What of the tests he needed, and the lesson plans, and what of the certification he needed to become...how could he become an assistant without all that? He could, sure, he _would_ help Jim, even without the certification. He could do the smaller jobs with no problem. But unless he had those papers...he could be made into anything, anywhere. He'd have no value beyond his body. Oh Gods, he'd be worth...nothing….

He blinked, and shivered—Jared was shaking his shoulder. "Jen, Jen did you hear me? I said, let's get dressed and go over to the stables, take the horses for a run?"

"Oh, I don't know, Jared, it's so cold—maybe we could pay Michael a visit instead—I mean Master Technician, please forgive me. But whatever you think would be best is what we'll do, of course."

Jared narrowed his eyes at him, staring at him for a long moment before the icy glare warmed, and he waved magnanimously. "It's okay—you need a little time to get used to the way things are now; I understand. We were all too familiar, Father said. We should never have let you call Michael by his name like a freeman. You just didn't know any better—and maybe you're right about it being too cold." 

Jared rolled off the bed to rummage through his closet until he found a shirt that suited him. He stuffed his arms into the sleeves, saying, "Father says he's going to get you instructors to teach you things you're better suited for, whatever that means," Jared laughed, but it was forced, and his cheeks turned a deep pink. Jensen dressed himself as well, watched the flush pour from Jared's cheeks down his throat, the open collar of his shirt showcasing the mottled red his chest went. Jared turned his back on Jensen, stepping into a pair of pants, before he cast him a look over his shoulder. "I'm...I. Let's go, maybe the masterTech has something new to show us."

* * * 

It really was a very interesting visit. Jensen was more than happy to throw his heart and soul into listening to masterTech—anything to drive ugly thoughts out of his head. It wasn't long before he was caught up, fascinated by the new Phon Mi—Master Technician had assembled. It was so small, Jen marveled, just a tiny, black box, sitting on the bench.

"We ordered it from a New York firm, Columbia Telegraph and Tela-phon—something like that. Isn't it brilliant? We're going to extend the Phon lines, and every part of the estate will have a state of the art tel-a-phon!" 

_"Telephone,"_ Eric corrected quietly, and Michael nodded. 

"Yes, tele-phone. I mean, we...well. Hopefully Master Padalecki wants to continue in that direction. It really would be—what's that word, Eric?" he asked, and Eric, not even looking up from the wires he held, muttered, "Copacetic" to Michael, who wiggled his eyebrows as he grinned at Jensen. 

"Copacetic—we're quite the razzle-dazzlers, eh?" He blithely ignored Eric's amused little huff, going on to say, "At any rate, if the master agrees to proceed, we'll have the most up-to-date communication system in this part of the state. I mean—look at this! It's magic in a box!"

The square, black box under Michael's hand had a series of lumpy little buttons across the bottom, the top of it held a raised holder for what he assured Jensen was a combined speaker/microphone. It was fascinating, but the whole time Michael and Eric explained the new tele-phone, and showed what it could do, Jared simply sat in one of the thickly stuffed chairs, legs twined together, chin on his hand and several cups of half-finished tea around him. He was the very picture of disinterest and Jen couldn't understand—the shop, and tinkering away here, chatting with Michael, had always been a joyful place for Jared. Jensen tapped Jared's knee lightly, asked, "Master, would you like me to bring your tools, and the last clockwork you—"

"No, Jensen, I would not." Jared replied sharply, and jumped to his feet. "Those are toys for babies. Come along now, we've taken enough of Michael's time, I think."

Michael held his hand out, smiling as he said, "Oh, no, Jared…" but wound down to silence at the look Jared gave him. "Pardon me, sir. Of course, you know best." 

They left shortly after that, Jared's long legs moving him ahead at a run. 

"Jensen, things have to change—will change, and I have to change with them. My father has been explaining how things will roll out going forward. You see…" He stopped abruptly, and Jensen just managed not to stagger into him. 

Jared took his elbow, and led him to the stables, dragging him inside towards the rear where they were quickly left alone. 

"Jensen," he whispered, "everyone thinks my father is the one who's the Padalecki now, but he's not. I am. I inherited the estate. Well, right now it's mine in name only, you know, until I'm twenty, but...I need to know how to _do_ this, to be this person. I can't disappoint him, Jensen, I just can't. He might...well darn it, he might just go back to the Sea House if I disappoint him. And I want him to stay. He's my father!"

Jensen could only nod, and murmur agreement to Jared. Of course, masterHouseboy and his assistant and probably the Landsman as well knew what the current situation was. So, Gerolt did have final word on everything. Until Jared turned twenty….

Jensen was sure that Gerolt was going to do his best to iron any vestige of Patricia right out of his master, had started already. He could see now, that this was the reason Mistress Patricia had worked so hard to create a bond between Jared and him; she'd been trying to make sure that no matter what happened in life, Jared always had a compass by his side, helping to steer him in the right direction and make sure Jared would always be Jared, and somehow, she'd selected Jensen for that. Gods knew he'd do anything to justify her trust in him. Only, Jensen was beginning to think they'd not had enough time….

* * * 

Preparations for Thanksgiving Day were in full swing; the entire household was caught up in the whirlwind. Master Gerolt had decided that instead of a traditional show of mourning, Mistress's memory would best be served by opening the residence to guests, and the household was ordered to carry on as if it was any other Thanksgiving Day.

Jensen found himself deeply involved in the preparations in a way he hadn't been since he became Jared's official companion. His free time was drastically diminished, to the point where he rarely got the chance to visit the tech shop, or the stables. He saw less of Jared as well, and that concerned him. Jared, for his part, visited the tech shop less and less and instead spent more time at the stables. He rode often in the company of his father and his father's friends, spent more time in the kinds of activities they thought was proper for a young estate holder—which didn't include helping out in the care of his horse, the way he'd done while Mistress lived.

As Jared counted down the days before his school let out for the holidays, Jensen counted down as well, looking forward to having a bit of time to himself again. He was becoming expert at ignoring the sympathetic looks from those in the household who knew what had happened. All his days were so very different now. He woke early to leave Jared's room before the roomgirl came. He spent the hour or two before dawn in the kitchen; early mornings were spent helping a disgruntled 'Cook prepare breakfast. Disgruntled because, as she said frequently, kitchen work was a waste of Jensen's abilities. Jensen couldn't really disagree with her, but at least the kitchen crew were fun—friendly and generous, and kind to him. No one commented on his loss of status, and they invited Jensen into their circle like along-lost cousin returned home.

It had actually become a more or less comfortable routine for Jen—after the morning meals had been prepared and plated, Jensen would then make Jared a tray and take it back to his room. He'd spend the brief time it took Jared to eat his breakfast with him, then entertained Jared while Bethany, his roomgirl, helped him dress. After Jared was ready, Jensen gathered Jared's school work for him and walked with him to the house door, waiting until Jared's driver took him away. Then, it was a quick dash back up the stairs to help Bethany tidy and then….

Then he worked at whatever job 'Houseboy set for him. Most days he worked on the books, some days he worked with Mark. He enjoyed those days the most, because Mark's job took him all over the estate, from the fields to the stables, to the gardens and orchards. He assisted Mark as he sorted out the necessary Thanksgiving Day supplies and made arrangements for the upcoming Toddler's Holiday, which they'd canceled earlier out of respect for Mistress's passing. It had been decided to have it a bit before Thanksgiving. The fields would be more bare than usual, but 'Cook and 'houseboy had managed to squirrel away some bags of dried beans and potatoes for them. Jensen smiled, thinking of how thrilled the little ones would be ehen they found a few sticks of candy under the potatoes….

Jensen followed Mark everywhere, and if he wasn't with Mark, he was with Jim, and if he wasn't with Jim, he was with Harold, the Landsman...somehow a head member of the staff had need of his assistance nearly every minute until Jared came for him at the end of the day.

* * * 

Jensen strolled leisurely along, taking his time about pulling a trolley full of table linens slated to be bleached and starched for the Thanksgiving Day meal. It was his third load to drop at the laundry that morning. Not that he minded lugging them back and forth—no one bothered him, and it was pleasantly warm in the wide hallway separating the bathing hall and the laundry. It smelled faintly of bleach and lavender-scented soap; passing the archway that lead to the baths, he caught a whiff of all the different oils used there. It smelled good, warm, comforting...he took a deeper breath and smiled. Thanks to his master's love of them, a good, hot, bath was a comfort he could freely indulge in.

He hummed quietly to himself as he walked towards the laundry, paying no attention until a sharp grip stopped him in his tracks. He fell back against the person who'd stopped him, and glanced over his shoulder with a smile, expecting to see one of the laundry thralls playing a trick on him. 

Gerolt smiled back. 

"Well, well, haven't you grown since last I saw you, little one? Remember how pretty an' delicate you were, but now...you've become a beefy thing. All...wide, an'...thick, an' rough-skinned." He grimaced. "Still have those pretty eyes, though, that pretty mouth. Let me see if you're pretty down there as well." 

Jensen dropped the trolley handle and tried to step away, angling himself away from Gerolt, raising his hands in shock. Gerolt slapped them down, and shoved his hand into the waist band of Jensen's pants. He yanked the pants down, taking Jen's boxer shorts down with them. Sharp nails scored Jensen's thighs, at his pained gasp, Gerolt chuckled. "Least you're not all grossly hairy, can't stand that...your prick is too big, too. But that's not a problem...."

Jensen's heart beat so hard it hurt; the blood rushing through him, pounding in his ears, made it difficult to hear what the man said. He desperately tried to still his violent shaking, not wanting to anger the master. His trembling mouth refused to pull in a breath and with each second that passed, the pressure in his chest grew—he was afraid that he'd die of lack of air, almost hoped for it—

There was movement up ahead, he could hear trolley wheels creaking and a voice, someone singing off-key. It was just so normal, the creaking trolley, the cheerful voice, the beat of a rapid step on the stone floor...the pressure in his chest released. 

It was going to be okay, thank all Four, It was going to be okay—someone was coming. Gerolt would stop now that someone might see. He felt his body slowly thaw, and when he spied one of the laundry thralls coming his way he came close to smiling before he realized he was standing in a public place with his pants around his knees—the thrall's song cut off, their eyes went wide at the sight, and they turned on their heel so fast the trolley they pulled hit the wall, rattling and screeing as it struggled to stay up right. 

Gerolt just smiled, never even turned his head as the thrall vanished in the other direction, and then it was Jensen realized that it was never going to be okay again. Gerolt could do whatever he wished, rape Jensen right there in the hall, and no one would say a word against it or move to stop the master. Jensen was helpless—they all were helpless. Jen started to cry quietly, tears welling up and running over his cheek. 

Gerolt slapped him. "Stop actin' like the world's comin' to an end. It's not like this isn't something you do with my son every day, is it?"

Jensen swallowed, licked his lips—should he speak? Keep silent? Was he meant to answer that? It was true—to an extent. But Jared never forced him, or hurt him, or never meant to if he did….

Gerolt pushed him away. "Oh, for fuck's... _go!_ Go back to work. I'll get you when I want you."

Jensen staggered—the clothing around his knees fell to his ankles. He nearly over-balanced with how quickly he tried to pull his underwear and pants back up. Gods, how he wanted to sprint down the hallway, away from Gerolt—just— _away,_ but he adjusted his clothing and smoothed his hair, and took the trolley handle up again and walked slowly, sedately away. He heard Gerolt laughing, a nasty sound that slithered under his skin and made Jensen want to wash and wash and wash every bit of him. It wasn't until he was helping fold the clean linens later that afternoon that the significance of what happened occurred to him...Gerolt _remembered_ him. Gerolt knew that Jared's supposed-to-be school companion had been the little twelve year old thrall he'd singled out for himself, only to have Mistress take him away. Jensen felt his mouth go dry at the same time his stomach lurched. What would that mean, he wondered? Was Gerolt planning on taking what was supposed to have been his personal property back?

* * * 

There were only a few days before Thanksgiving Day, and Jensen considered himself fortunate not to be part of the kitchen staff. Right now, as far as he was concerned, the kitchen was a miniature version of hell and the staff were all possessed by cranky, mean-spirited demons. Instead, thank Eir and Skirnir, he'd been set to decorating—along with a toddler who'd come in with a small lot of thralls few days before. This day, they were working on the wide front porch, placing pumpkins and large pots of mums and asters on each step, dressing the railing with tall, dry cornstalks, tied together with woven ropes of ivy. The toddler chattering away at his side was as pretty as a china doll, her vibrant red hair set off beautifully by her brown skin. The sun made her green eyes glow; Jensen thought her eyes were much prettier than people claimed his were. Chocolate freckles dusted her cheekbones just the way cinnamon dusted his. She was a perfect, lovely, little thing, and Jensen worried about her. He'd have to put in a word with Mark, maybe 'Cook could see the way to making sure of her….

Footsteps in gravel and raucous voices drowned out the toddler's voice—Gerolt and the new masterMaid, along with a person Jen didn't recognize, were coming up through the visitors' paths. Jen whispered into the tiny girl's ear, "Run back to the kitchen, tell 'Cook I sent you, and that Master Gerolt is home with a guest. Here, don't forget your basket and broom," he said. 

She took them and gave him a serious nod, then dashed off in the direction Jen sent her. Jensen sighed, hoping that Eir was watching out for the little one. 

"Ah. Look here, little one. Follow me, _now."_

Jensen jerked with the wave of panic that struck him—until he realized Gerolt hadn't meant the little girl—Trixy, Trinny, something—he'd meant Jensen. Even with the relief Jensen felt that Gerolt hadn't wanted the girl, nerves made his knees wobble as Gerolt walked past, snapping his fingers at Jensen as he did. Jensen stupidly watched him walk away, until his wits caught up with him and he ran frantically after Gerolt, the masterMaid and the guest.

* * * 

He followed Master Gerolt into the house, trailing silently behind him until they came to a familiar room made ugly and strange—Mistress's redecorated study, now filled with a wide bar covered with decanters along one wall, fat club chairs and squat side tables sprouting here and there, topped with even more decanters filled with various shades of gold and brown that glimmered in the low light. Everything was dark red or gold or forest-green, except for a few yellow doors that were set into the far wall. The room looked somehow narrower; the doors were new, and Jensen wondered if Gerolt had installed closets, though why there'd be a need of that Jensen couldn't imagine. Outside of the bright doors, the color scheme was oppressive, as were the dark, heavy pieces of furniture, and no doubt the whole thing was meant to be imposing, but to Jensen it was just...trite. Unoriginal, and actually painful to see all the light, fresh, _modern_ touches Mistress Patricia's study had had wiped away. There was nothing in this room now that she would have approved of. Nothing remained of her except...her rosewood desk, where Gerolt sat, like a poisonous toad on a lily pad.

"Come over here, Jensen," Gerolt said. He kicked a pillow onto the floor by the desk. The masterMaid and Gerolt's guest took seats as well. The 'Maid's gaze was flat, expressionless as a doll's  
, but the other...hot, greedy eyes locked on Jensen. 

Jensen walked slowly to Gerolt's side, ready to drop down...Gerolt stopped him. 

"Jensen, Jensen, Jensen...what did Patty do with you, eh? What did old Pats have you doin? Goin' to school and hanging around Jared. Playin' at being something better than what you are—what you were supposed to be. Why'd you think you were bought from that old man? Wastin' you, he was." He stopped took a sip from the glass he rolled in his hands. The guest leaned forward, the lamplight picking up beads of sweat dotting what was left of his hairline, shining off of the thin hook of his nose. 

"Come on, Gerry. What are you coddlin' it for? Let's—"

"Shut up, Kurt." The master turned his attention back to Jensen. "Strip. Then kneel, here."

Jensen jerked back as if he'd been slapped. Fear crushed the breath out of him. Skadi, he was going to pass out, gods—and then, no doubt, die at the posts like a field worker.

_"Jensen."_

_Strip._ Strip echoed in his head. He was an apprentice houseboy. He was a pinned school companion, he—he wasn't a body thrall, not for Jared and certainly not for a stranger. 

"Don't make me repeat myself," Gerolt hissed, and Jensen's lungs unlocked enough to inhale a shaky breath. The posts loomed in his mind. His shoulders burned with phantom pain...he toed his shoes off and shoved them slowly to the side. The tiled floor was cold under his feet. The thin, silk socks were next...he slowly balled them up and tucked one precisely into the toe of each shoe. 

_"Jensen…."_ Gerolt snarled. 

Unbuttoned his collar, trembling fingers working the jacket snaps open before he let it drop to the floor. He glanced at Gerolt, who nodded his head and flapped his hand in a 'hurry-up' signal.

Suspenders slid off his shoulders; the snaps of his pants made a sound like breaking bones as he opened them, one after the other. Tears pricked his eyes. He stepped out of the fine wool, nudged the pants aside. He could hear thick, gulping sounds coming from the guest, Kurt. 

Gerolt huffed impatiently, and snapped his fingers again. "Kneel, you, and take presentation form." 

Jensen had started towards him, but stopped, confused. "I'm so sorry, Master, but I'm not sure what...that means?" He had a vague idea of course—who didn't hear stories? But the precise thing the master wanted was a mystery to him. 

"Damn it," Gerolt shouted and strode over to Jensen. Gerolt drew his foot back, kicked Jen's shin so that he dropped to his knees, biting his lip to keep from shouting in pain. Gerolt kicked him again, one sharp blow to the inside of each thigh that forced Jensen's knees wide apart, shattering any illusions he had left.

"That's it, that's more like it," Gerolt mumbled as he grabbed Jen's jaw, forcing his lips apart, staring into Jensen's eyes as he did—searching for something, it seemed. A few heavy seconds passed before he snorted, and then shoved a couple of fingers into Jen's open mouth, roughly jerking them back and forth until it felt like his mouth was on fire. Gerolt smirked, withdrew his fingers and wiped them on Jensen's cheek. "Yes, that's it, red and swollen and wet—they should always look like that. Say yes, little one. 

Jensen blinked rapidly to quash tears, afraid to touch his sore mouth, afraid to move at all, "Yes, mas—" he managed before Gerolt leaned over and forced his tongue into Jensen's mouth.

Jensen's first instinct was to bite down, but self-preservation made him freeze instead. He let Gerolt maul him; endured him licking the inside of his mouth, chew at his lips, dig his nails into his face, until finally Gerolt pushed him away. Jensen took a small, hesitant breath, hoping that now he'd be able to move—to leave the room, but Gerolt chuckled, and slowly, button by button, opened his pants. 

"Now we're getting somewhere," Jensen heard the master's guest moan, and wanted to scream. He wanted to scream until he couldn't...but what would it matter if he did? Jensen wasn't a fool. No one would _—could—_ help, and no one was foolish enough to misunderstand Gerolt's meaning when he'd held the Introduction in the punishment square. 

The first push inside made him grunt with pain, which seemed to goad Gerolt into pulling out and slamming back inside, completely unconcerned whether Jensen could swallow, or breathe, or remain upright. Jensen fought off vomiting as he struggled to work the cock that Gerolt seemed determined to shove down his throat into his gut. 

Jensen felt a presence behind him, and nearly lost his battle not to vomit when he felt Master's guest behind him, felt his sticky belly and cock rubbing against his bare back. A shudder rippled through the man and Jensen felt it; his skin crawled in horror and if he could have moved...he was distracted by the man's fingers digging into Jensen's shoulders. He was almost grateful for the nails biting into his skin. Moments later, a blurt of thick, viscous heat spat between his shoulder blades, dribbled down his spine. Jensen gulped frantically, swallowing down bile, spit, come...blood from his torn lips…he prayed that Eir would help him to keep his tears hidden. 

After, Gerolt leaned back in one of the club chairs, looking pleased with himself. 'masterMaid handed him a full glass, and lit the cigar he twirled in his thick fingers. Inhaling slowly, he looked Jensen up and down, tilting his head as he assessed him, the way he barely kept his form. Jensen tried, he did, but he couldn't stop himself weaving from side to side. His knees screamed with pain, his mouth was bloody and swollen. Gerolt idly blew a few rings of smoke towards the ceiling. He flicked ash vaguely in the direction of a tiny cloisonne ashtray on Mistress's desk.

"Y'know, I quite like this one, Kurt," he said. "He's old, but still pretty. Jus' he's got these monstrously ugly bowed legs, and now you're the estate physic, I want you to fix them. Can't you break his knees and reset them, or, say, take the deformed bones out and replace them with, I don't know, metal or somethin'? I mean, how hard can it be?"

"Well, rather hard actually. I don't know that it's ever been done before...almost certain it hasn't. But if you don't mind possibly losing him, I can try. So many things can go wrong," the man murmured, but to Jensen's increasing horror, he actually looked excited at the prospect. "Say, if I can correct his deformity, but it leaves him unable to move…"

"Well in that case, he'd be no good to me, would he? Then it'd the Renderers, eh?"

_The Renderers, the knick knack man…._ Jensen felt as if he were made of paper, as if a breeze could tip him, or blow him far way. The edges of his vision wavered. He tightened his control, standing in one of the old-fashioned postures Gerolt demanded. His fingers cramped as he held onto his elbows, and tried to keep his stance even and open. He ignored the tacky feeling on his back and hands, the pulsating, painful throb in his mouth.

"If that happens to be the case, if the operation in any way fails, but he lives…." The physic licked his lips with a thin, pale tongue. "I'd like him. I'd waive my fee, of course; oh, and I don't think there should be any price for him, a thrall in that condition. Just, an even trade, eh?"

Gerolt laughed. "You want a cripple? You are an interestin' one, aren't you?" He smiled warmly at the physic. "All right. That sounds like a decent deal to me, Kurt. Fine. If he doesn't come out of this with flying colors, he's yours. Even trade...but. I will expect the standard thrallprice for his loss of services, so..."

Kurt frowned, but nodded in agreement. Gerolt snapped his finger at Jensen. "Here, you. Top up Physic Fuller's glass." 

Jensen froze when he was directly addressed—thought he was actually in danger of wetting himself, he was so terrified. He managed to keep the tremors racking him from showing as he limped, naked and soiled, over to the small bar near Gerolt. He hissed quietly to himself, tried to stop his hands shaking as he lifted the heavy decanter of scotch. He nearly dropped it when the door flew open, hitting the wall with a bang. 

"Jensen!" Jared shouted. "Here, immediately!" He pointed at a spot at his side, and Jensen was so overwhelmed between fear and shock, he dashed to Jared and—something he'd never done before—dropped to his knees at his master's side, curled over to bare the back of his neck. 

"What the hel do you think you're doing, Jared?"

What the hel do you think _you're_ doing?" Jared shouted back, his eyes gone green with fury. "This is _my_ thrall. How dare you make any decisions concerning him? He belongs to me."

Gerolt stood, his pale face was mottled red with anger. "Listen here, boy, when your dam passed—" Jensen swallowed a horrified gasp at the way Master Gerolt referred to Mistress, as if she'd been a thrall—"all her property became mine, you know that—"

"Jensen is not part of the estate. He's mine personally. My mother gave him to me—only to me. He. Is. Mine. Don't ever try to make decisions concerning him unless you have my express permission, ever, ever again." He turned to Jensen. "Stand up."

Jensen hung his head in shame as he stood, knowing what a disgusting sight he must be. How could Jared even look at him—he stank, he was covered in Gerolt and the physic's spend, their saliva, his blood...he wanted to cry, more so when he actually caught a glimpse of the disgusted shock on Jared's face.

Jared took a deep breath, and reached out to Jensen, about to grasp his shoulder, but snatching his hand back before the touch landed. His mouth twisted, and Jensen wasn't sure if he was about to frown or spit. A moment passed and Jared managed to soften his expression, the look he gave Jensen was warmer, sympathetic..."Go to my room. I'll be right behind you, Jen."

Jensen walked—naked since Jared didn't hand him his clothes—out of the room but the moment the door shut, he ran as fast as he could push himself to Jared's suite.

Thanking all gods he managed not to run into anyone in the hall, he let himself into the suite and sank to the pile of pillows that was his, wrapping his arms around his knees in a desperate try to stop shaking. The Jared in that room had been a stranger. There was barely a trace of the fourteen year old boy he loved. That had been a man in that room, an estate holder...a thrall holder. And, Jensen shuddered, Gerolt's son. They'd destroyed any lingering sense of safety in that room. He'd treasured the time he'd spent in Mistress's study, and now…Jensen was beginning to suspect he had no safe space at all. 

When he was sure he could stand without falling over, he shuffled into Jared's washroom, ran water into the sink and quickly washed off the traces of Gerolt and the physic, and wished he could run to the bathing hall to soak it all away. But Jared would be there momentarily and Jensen had to be clean, he had to be. He dried himself, pulled on a night shirt, and sat in the pillows to wait for his master. 

Shortly after, Jared came in, face red, his eyes wet, but snapping with anger. The smell of Gerolt's scotch in the air overrode the usual woodsy scent in Jared's room.  


"Get on the bed," he growled, and tore his clothes off. Jensen undressed without a command and threw himself on the bed, praying to the four gods for guidance, for forgiveness...or maybe he was praying to Jared.

Jared didn't look Jensen in the face, just threw his legs wide, spit on his hole and drove in. Jensen bit on his tongue to keep a shout of shock and pain in. Jared pumped his hips viciously, teeth bared—it had to be nearly as unpleasant for him as for Jensen. It wasn't more than a minute or two before Jared came, the shout he let loose sounded nothing at all like pleasure—he pulled out midway through orgasm and finished on Jensen's belly. He grimaced, staring at the semen spattered on Jensen's chest. He growled, smacked his hand down in the mess and smeared it viciously across Jen's chest, grinding the heel of his hand over and over into the skin. 

"You never forget that you're mine. Don't let anyone else touch you, do you hear me Jensen?"

Jensen nodded to this stranger, this person who had Jared's face but a stranger's eyes. Jared glared down into Jensen's face, and slowly, little by little, he eased up, his eyes went from a dark, stormy grey-green to his usual hazel, red-rimmed and glassy with tears. He dropped down onto Jensen, wrapping himself around him, his cheek pressed tightly to Jensen's, so tight Jared's tears wet Jensen's cheek. 

"No one touches you from now on, no one ever," he muttered. Jensen shivered, muscles wound tight enough to break finally began to relax…"Not ever again without my permission…"

Jensen's heart froze. He swallowed against the thick feeling in his throat, hoping against hope that he'd misunderstood his master's words.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an early snowfall came roaring across the county like an angry beast. It tore through the fields, whipped through gardens and orchids, leaving a thick, freezing blanket of white in its wake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, [jj1564](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJ1564/pseuds/JJ1564) for helping me make this chapter worth posting. ;)

Not long after Thanksgiving, an early snowfall came roaring across the county like an angry beast. It tore through the fields, whipped through gardens and orchids, leaving a thick, freezing blanket of white in its wake. No traffic could come into the state, no traffic could come out. Life on the estate slowed, and Jensen rather liked it. 

Master Gerolt had a few friends in the home, stranded there by the snowstorms. Fewer new visitors meant less revelry, and that meant Jared was quieter and more like what Jensen thought of as his real self since he wasn't required to perform as _Son of The Master._ The face he pulled on as Gerolt's son made Jensen's blood run cold. Lately, it seemed it was becoming harder for Jared to remove the mask.

Jensen shushed along the hall towards the kitchen, his house slippers making no sound against the carpet. The house was quiet for an early afternoon and hopefully it would remain that way; as long as the thralls kept themselves scarce and as long as the wine and liquor held out Jensen figured it would. Fingers crossed, he sent a quick, hopeful wish to Eir to keep an eye out for them. Once in the kitchen, he loaded a large basket with bottle after bottle of some mediocre wine masterCook set out for him, while a couple of the older trayboys busily loaded platters with turkey and roast beef sandwiches for the Master and his freemen friends. The steamy air and rich smells made him smile, remembering when he and Jared would sneak down into the kitchen and filch something good from under 'Cook's nose. He missed those days, when difference in station wasn't overwhelming. 

Footsteps behind him and a heavy hand landing on his shoulder broke him out of his reverie. The smell of sweet spices and flour identified them as masterCook—a very impatient masterCook. 

"Lucky, as soon as you set that basket down for that horde, make steps to the stables. I know it's cold out there, but Landsman sent for you. I think he needs you to help a few boys of his pick out a tree for the Yuletide. Just because there's frog in the henhouse thinkin' it's a rooster doesn't mean we can't do as we've always done."

A few of the staff broke into giggles, quickly smothered. It was one thing for masterCook to mock the wretched new Master and quite another for them to join in. Jensen, though, couldn't help grinning. Hefting the basket, he said, "Yes, ma'am. Head to th'stables, seek a tree...collect holly branches, evergreen boughs as well? Oh, and I guess a Yule log?"

"What? By Skadi!" 'Cook stopped and glared at him. "We don't have damn holly branches? No evergreen ropes? Wreathes for the front door? _No Yule log?"_

Jen's shook his head in the negative, stuttering through an apology for not having made a start on any Yule tide decorating, but 'Cook refused to hear it. She threw down the pot she held. It bounced across the counter and hit the slates, the loud crash it made when it hit the ground plunging the kitchen into silence. "What the bloody Hel is that woman good for?" she shouted. "This is her position! The house is supposed to be her bailiwick—gods, she's a worthless bag of nothing—" 

"Please, 'Cook, don't!" The headGirl rushed up to her, her face pale and eyes wide with panic. She grabbed 'Cook's flailing arms and held on. "Someone might hear!"

The headGirl's panic startled Jen, that and the way 'Cook bit down on her lip 'til it went white. She'd never been a woman to hold her feelings back on much. In the kitchen, the masterHouseMaid hadn't much sway outside of designing the menus for formal events— the kitchen was masterCook's domain, and the day-to-day running of the house was up to 'Houseboy. masterHouseMaid ruled the room girls, and generally in most households was a confidante for the mistress by default. This one...Jensen had to agree. She didn't seem to be much of an asset at all.

Cook swung about and fixed Jensen with a glare, and angrily gestured him from the room. _"Go!_ You too," she shouted at the trayboys, who staggered a bit under the weight of their trays but scuttled after Jensen as well. Jensen took off without another word—he made his way to the parlor as quickly as he could, where Master would be with his company. 

Setting the basket down, Jensen reached for the doorknob—even through the heavy oak door he could hear music and shouting—a game of cards, no doubt. Easing the door open, he took an involuntary step backwards at the stink of cigar smoke and stale beer that seemed to billow out like a poisonous cloud from the open doorway. 

He blinked against the quick sting of tears. Every time there was a sign how low the estate had fallen, the loss of the Mistress hit him anew….

Thankfully, the whoosh of the gas fire coming on took him out of his dark thoughts. The glow brightened the gloom—Master Gerolt had installed a few of the modern conveniences that masterTechnologist Michael had recommended, the new fireplace being one of them. Glancing quickly around, he saw that the masterTech was not in attendance, and that was not surprising in the least. Master Gerolt's cronies were just too different from Michael for him to tolerate, or for them to treat Michael with respect. Jared wasn't in attendance either, and Jensen was glad about that. He wondered where his young master was, but he didn't linger in the room—he quickly dropped the basket on the floor near the hunt table and emptied the basket in record time. While the trayboys made a distracting commotion with the food, he managed to slip out without drawing Master Gerolt's attention, thank the gods. He dashed for the mud room to fetch a coat and scarf. He couldn't get to the stables fast enough.

* * * 

He was in the tiny mud room that the estate kept for thrall-use only, crouching over a bench as he laced up a pair of boots—nice, thick things that fit him like they were made for him. He was smiling slightly with the pleasure of having found such a lovely pair of well-made, warm boots. _"Never take anything for granted, Jenny,"_ his mother used to say, and he'd seen over and over the sense of that. Life was about treasuring little moments like this, banking them up for the sad days. He was just rising when someone jumped on his back, shoving him forward almost over the bench and knocking the breath right out of him. Fear rippled outward from his center to his limbs, like a rock thrown in a pond, until soft, mocking laughter in his ear made him relax—somewhat. _Jared._ "Oh, Master!"

"Did I scare you, Jenny? I did, didn't I?" Jared purred, and Jensen tried to hide the way he grimaced at hearing Jared's hateful new nickname for him, the one Gerolt used. It turned Jen's stomach every time. 

"Yes, Master," he said, dropping his eyes to the floor and ignoring Jared's frown. "I was very frightened." 

"Well, that's no fun, you were only supposed to be a little scared; c'mon, admit it was funny."

Jensen kept his eyes on the toes of his boots. "Yes, Master, it was funny."

"Oh for—wait, what are you doing? Where are you going without speaking to me first?" Jensen looked up at Jared quickly, about to look away, when Jared took his hand and said, softly, "I missed you today. Can't I go with?"

Jensen couldn't help but smile at Jared's plaintive tone, and wide, shimmering eyes. "'Landsman called for me to help his boys find a tree. I guess he doesn't trust their taste, not that I blame him. We're going out to the forest, if you'd really like to go." Jensen coughed lightly, and whispered, "I'd happy if you did want to go."

Jared's eyes lit up. "Oh, great, let me get my coat and I'll meet you at the service doors!" He took off running, making Jensen laugh. Lovely seeing him like that: happy, free, and being a little silly. It was a side of Jared he rarely got to see these days. Hel, he rarely got to see Jared at all these days. Jensen wished Jim didn't keep him quite so busy running about the estate. It hardly made sense to do so, especially now that Mistress's position for him in the household was doubtful…it hurt a little, learning all the skills he'd never get a chance to use. Unless Jared made him 'Houseboy some day. "To your ears, Skirnir," he wished.

* * * 

Jensen was sitting by the service doors, nibbling on a little slice of candied ginger 'Cook gave him. Well, more or less gave him. He might have been overcome with nostalgia, and lifted a bit or two from the overcrowded. candy jar when 'Cook's back was turned. He was doing her a favor actually, seeing as how now the lid closed properly….

A sudden commotion killed the evening's silence, bringing him instantly to his feet—and breaking into laughter. 

There was his Jared, togged out in his gray wool greatcoat, striding down the path towards the stables—a man on a mission. Right behind him, pleading and apologizing but insisting Jared cover his ears, came his tiny roomgirl, Bethany. She hopped to and fro like a little crow, frantically waving a knit cap at Jared's back. 

Jared was scowling, cheeks flushed a deep red. Finally he stopped, flung his arms in the air, then with a curse he swung about and snatched the cap from her. He stuffed it in his pocket as she danced from foot to foot, still in house slippers and nothing but a thin shawl around her shoulders. 

Jensen reached Jared just as he shouted for Bethany to please get back in the house before she caught some horrible fever or something. Jensen managed not to laugh out loud, covering the chuckles he couldn't stifle by pretending to cough, and blaming it on the cold air. By the look in Jared's eyes, he was in no way falling for the lie, but thank goodness, he grinned back at Jensen after a few moments. He grabbed Jen's mittened hands and tugged him down the path to the stables, and Jen quickly turned to wink at Bethany, grinning when she rolled her eyes and sighed. Being Jared's personal roomgirl could be a trial—something Jensen could certainly empathize with. 

Two of Landsman's workers were waiting for them at the stable door, hitching two heavy-set horses to a flat bed wagon. They were shaking their heads, stamping at the snow, seeming to be as ready as the boys to head out through the snow.

Jensen stared at the boys in awe, they were tall, thick fellows who smiled a lot, and kept up a constant chatter between themselves, not quite excluding Jared, but not exactly including him either—they were indentured thralls, maybe not quite as awed by the master as born thralls were. They were handsome, and looked enough alike to be twins, but Jensen doubted they were related. It would be odd, for a pair of boys from one family to be both be indentured—unless of course the rest of the family was dead and the state required reimbursement for debts.

Jensen shook his head, clearing out odd, wayward thoughts. Yuletide, that's why they were standing out here in the cold. One of the boys had a long, yellow ribbon tied around his arm, and was placing a long, two-handled saw on the wagon. "Master Jared, we are ready when you say good. There's cocoa in the wagon, and—" The boy reached in his coat and pulled out a tiny flask, shaking it "—we've got a little something master Landsman sent along. And 'Cook sent some nibbles, too."

Jared grinned at Jensen, and told the other thrall to pour out some cocoa for them all. He splashed a generous amount of schnapps in all their cups, shuddering a bit when he gulped his down. "Ugh...umm. That seemed like a better idea than it actually was."

Jensen nodded, slowly sipping his, letting the warmth fill his chest. He loved Yuletide, loved looking for the tree—loved being with Jared like this.

They set out with the skies just beginning to darken. The moon was high in the sky, still a thin shadow of itself peeking in and out through purple clouds, the setting sun painting blue shadows on the snow. The crunch-crunch of the snow as they walked, the ridiculous chatter the boys kept up, and Jared's occasional burst of laughter at their silliness was music to Jensen's ears. Sometimes it seemed as though Jared had forgotten what it was to laugh, seemed like there were weeks when he didn't so much as chuckle. It was an unwelcome and unsettling change in his master, who was a boy who'd loved to laugh—had enjoyed such silly things and easily made his very staid and serious mother laugh. 

Another burst of laughter came from the front of the wagon, where Jared walked next to the horses and listened to the ridiculous mock fight the thrall boys were having. masterCook had absolutely known what she was doing when she had Landsman send those two. With their handsome looks, booming laughs, and ready smiles, they made great company. Jensen was swept with a wave of fondness for them, for how they could make his master forget anything but this pure and trouble-free moment. 

The horses' tack rang and jingled in the crisp air, their breath streaming out like plumes of steam, like fire-breathing dragons. The shadows on the snow were a deeper blue, and the trees now just black brushstrokes against the sky. Their tall, black shadows made Jensen shiver, and then suddenly the shiver was eaten up by the blast of ice that slid down his neck. 

"Ha-ha, Jen—that's what you get for woolgathering!" Jared laughed, then ran past Jensen, incidentally presenting himself as a big, old target. 

Jensen swiped at the mess of liquefying ice on the back of his neck. "I'm going to get you, you _—you!"_

Jared ran on, looking back towards Jensen. He looked so handsome, his face framed by the colorful knit cap, a cap Mistress had brought back from an Aztecan visit. The tip of his nose was red with the chill air, his cheeks ruddy with it. Jensen had always been secretly fond of what winter did to his Master, the way his eyes sparkled with joy—and mischief. Jared laughed when one of the boys tossed a snowball at him, his grin so wide, dimples popping out to frame his smile like it was the most beautiful work of art. Jared hooted, dipped to scoop a glove-full of snow and flung it back—

_"Gods,"_ Jensen muttered reverently. Whenever Jared's cheeks pinked up like that, Jensen had to fight to keep from cupping them between his mittened hands and stroking warmth back into his skin, all his skin. To kiss and nuzzle, and warm his lips with his own, lick and...and...distracted once again, he had to endure Jared's obnoxious victory crow when the snowball aimed at him smacked Jen right in the middle of his forehead. Blinking back stars, he gulped air in, waiting for the world to stop shimmying before letting out his own war cry, and chasing Jared off the path and into the forest. 

Jensen tramped about in the gloom, patting and rolling a snowball guaranteed to wreak havoc. He was imagining Jared, shocked and breathless and starfished in the snow, when suddenly the forest jumped and rolled, and then Jared, swift and sneaky as can be, pushed him up against a huge old oak and peppered his mouth and cheeks with wet little kisses, all in fun. 

"You look like a wood sprite, Jensen, all dressed in green—it brings your eyes out. Your beautiful eyes," Jared whispered.

Jensen tilted his chin up for Jared's mouth, and tried to remember each and every kiss he got; the soft press of Jared's fingers on his face, possessive, but oh so gentle. Lately, kisses so sweet were few and far between. Jared rarely kissed his mouth now, despite how frequently he used it...Jensen shook off the thought and pulled Jared closer, not letting the slightest bit of gloom inside. Jared shimmied and bucked, trying to push himself deeper between Jensen's legs. He held onto Jensen, rocking tightly upwards so Jen could feel how hard he was, but there was no demand in his eyes—just a cheerful acknowledgment of what they did to each other. He rocked up again, groaning and laughing into Jensen's mouth. Jen slid his mittened hands between the open flaps of Jared's great coat. Both of them were wishing there was more time, more warmth, more—

They both jumped, giggling, when it sounded like the boys were right on them, calling for Jensen and the master, claiming to have found the perfect tree.

It was. It was tall, and full, and richly green and it was perfect. One of the boys tied the yellow ribbon to a branch, and then they went in search of holly branches it weave into a wreath. Jensen worked quickly and surely with the clippers, cutting branches and tossing them onto the wagon bed. Jared watched what he was doing for a bit, and then began cutting as well. In no time they had sufficient branches to make a holly wreath, and a few nice evergreen ropes, and some swags for the common room windows. 

"Master Jared, come see what you think, sir," called one of the boys called. "Jason found the Yule log!"

_Jason, yes, of course. And the other one was Taylor._ He followed Jared out of the trees, the horses looking at him curiously as he sneaked quietly around them. The boys and Jared were taking turns sawing at a fallen log, a thick, old piece of oak. It should do perfectly, Jen thought, fit right in the huge old parlor fireplace like it was made for it. Once it dried out, it should be perfect.

* * * 

Jensen looked in the corner of the great room. The perfect tree sat, perfectly adorned, candles bringing a warm glow to the hall. Totally ignored by Gerolt. Jared had half-heartedly participated in decorating the tree, helping the youngest to hang ornaments as tradition called for. Jensen could see that it hurt him—it hurt Jensen as well, all the memories of the lovely Yules before sitting on his heart like a weight. Jen looked around the embarrassing room at the poor display. The candles they'd set out were the cheapest they could buy, and the greens came mostly from the estate instead of the florist, brown spots here and there, needles dropping from the branches. There were no intricately woven table decorations this year, no ropes for the banisters—he and Trinny had done what they could, placing evergreen boughs in the parlor and halls.

At least they had a proper Yule log in the fireplace, as tradition demanded. The log was lit by masterHouseBoy as Jared looked on, a small frown and red eyes a clear indicator of his feelings. Jim knelt on the hearth, and one of the older roomgirls, his little chest puffed up with pride, solemnly handed him a long, black splinter from last year's log. Jensen couldn't help but smile despite the mood of sorrow tainting the Yule cheer, remembering all the years he'd lit the Yule log for Master Patrick's estate, from the time he could handle a match until...until his sale. 

The older roomgirl stepped behind a little girl—from the looks of it his sister, who stammered and lisped a thanks to the gods before curtsying and fleeing the hearth to hide behind Jim. 

There would be no dancing this year, no performance from the toddlers. There was no accompanying ritual, there were none of the traditional songs. This was a bare-bones celebration. There were no bags of sugar and flour for land or house thrall, in fact, the only nod to the day being a holiday was Jared passing the very youngest of the roomgirls some foil-wrapped chocolates—the kind that came three dozen to the bag and were exactly the sort of thing that thrifty masters gave to their thralls. 

Jensen stood quietly in the shadows of the room and watched Jared as he placed a chocolate or two into sweaty, tiny hands. Jared looked tired and sad, his eyes dim, the bright grin Jensen was used to seeing at this time of year just a shadow. Jensen understood, of course—the absence of Mistress was sorely felt by everyone. Well, excepting the Master and his cronies. 

Still, Jensen frowned, it seemed to him that Jared's dismal aspect was about more than Jared missing his mother. Sorrow and sadness had a profound effect on everything—the estate and to the people. But Jared...it was as if some essential part of him was missing, only showing in brief glimmers like the Yuletide tree hunt. Jensen sighed, shook his head and did his best to be even more invisible. Glancing up, he caught Gerolt staring at him, his eyes seeming brighter against the florid redness of his face.

Jensen fought down a shudder and dropped his eyes. Suddenly he was surrounded; Jim's bulk inching in front of him, and Mark appearing from the dark to block sight of him from the other side, and MasterTech managed to wander about with his tiny glass of eggnog and come to rest obscuring Jensen as well. And of course there was Eric, because where Michael was, he was never far behind. 

Jensen was thankful to be out of sight of Master Gerolt and his disturbing slug of a physic, Master Fuller. Jen drew himself up, lifted his head and concentrated on the comforting presence of Jim, and Eric, and Master Jared being kind to the trayboys and roomgirls. He looked about for masterHouseMaid, but of course, she was not in sight. Not unexpected since as 'Cook had pointed out, she rarely involved herself in the day-to-day running of the household. She'd done little except sign-off on whatever receipts Jim brought for items the masterHouseMaid was traditionally responsible for: the foods, the decorations, the Yule Evening dinner. 

Every thrall on the Padalecki estate thought new 'HouseMaid was an insult to the memory of the late masterHouseMaid. Amanda might not have been an especially warm presence, but she took her position seriously, and always did her job to the best of expectations and beyond. This new HouseMaid and her responsibilities were an absolute mystery to everyone. The doors to the parlor opened, and as though thinking about her had called her up, masterHouseMaid entered, along with a few more fashionably dressed men. She had a toddler by the shoulder; a tiny girl wearing little red slippers, sprigs of wildflowers in her intricately curled hair, her dress made of layer after layer after layer of tulle. masterHouseMaid pushed the little thing forward, and the tray she was carrying wobbled with the sudden movement. She curtsied before Gerolt, holding the tray out. He took a card from it, cracked the seal on the envelope and smirked, his cheeks going an even deeper red.

masterHouseMaid came forward and sat next to him with a smile. He handed her a full glass—and at that moment, Jensen realized she was a freeman. He glanced at Jim and saw the way his eyes tightened, how the lines bracketed his mouth deepened. Gerolt had the little girl sit at his feet, and let her sip from time to time from his glass of eggnog. Jensen worried, his eyes on her as the tiny thing slowly tilted sideways and into sleep. masterHouseMaid made a signal to a pair of thralls stationed at the door, strangers. They were dressed alike in high-necked jackets, and had the Padalecki pin on their shoulders, signaling they were thralls, newcomers to the estate. Jim looked surprised, as did Mark—new thralls were never set to work until they had met everyone in the house and most particularly the masterHouseboy. New times indeed, he thought. New, disturbing, unsettling times. He watched as one of them picked the tiny girl up, and follow the other out of the hall. 

The log was burning merrily now, colored powder that Jared had tossed on it catching occasionally, but there were no murmurs of pleasure—Gerolt and his cronies had no interest, and the thralls were too frightened of offending to make a sound. After a bit Gerolt stood and gestured to the other men. "Well, come on then, let's sit to dinner, eh? See what the old girl in the kitchen managed to throw together."

masterHouseMaid ushered the Masters and their guests into the great dining room. Candles in the sconces did little to lend a festive air. The audiocon was playing drinking songs instead of traditional carols—not the lilting, lovely classical music Jensen enjoyed. Halfway through the small bites, the audiocon was switched to a football match, and Jensen heard a few audible gasps. Jim coughed sternly.

The men cheered around mouthfuls of food, the women looked bored; they ate, they drank, and spilled wine and their dinner across Mistress's snowy-white heirloom linens. Jared sat at his father's side, smiling, smiling...Jensen saw the collection of glasses at his elbow grow, until finally masterHouseMaid gave the trayboys leave to collect them. The people at the table pinched and caressed the little boys and girls, and the masterHouseMaid ignored their distressed faces, smiling after them as they whisked out of the room, some of them stumbling as they ran. Jim whispered to Mark, and MAR, AND Mark whispered to one of the serving thralls, who followed the trayboys from the room.

When the masterHouseMaid called for trayboys again, much older thralls—kitchen thralls—attended instead. Master Gerolt started to rise, before he caught Jim and Mark looking at him—eye to eye, in challenge. Gerolt sat, and the kitchen thralls served the rest of dinner.

* * * 

Finally, there came the point of the evening where the president gave the traditional Yuletide speech. This year would be the new President's first Yuletide Address to the Nation. The tables were cleared, more drinks provided, and kitchen thralls rolled out the iconoscope. The buzz of conversation rose, letting Jensen catch a few words—apparently there was to be some sort of major announcement from the new president this evening. Jensen glanced back at Mark. He was lurking in the shadows, looking over the freemen and thralls with a deeply worried expression. It made Jensen's gut turn to ice...he had a sudden, very bad feeling.

Jim took over from the kitchen thralls. He turned the knob on the iconscope with a bit of ceremony, bowing out of the way once it began to warm up. A soft hum grew louder and louder as a tiny white dot in the center of the screen grew bigger—with a pop, there was a picture, rich greys and blacks, and Jen could clearly hear a fanfare being played. On the small screen, President Davies strode up to the podium, the fanfare going softer and softer until finally, silence descended, both on screen and off. President Davies greeted the nation and said, "This year, we celebrate prosperity, we celebrate the growth of our nation, and we celebrate a new vision for this land."

Mark moved to Jensen's side under cover of the shadows and took his hand. He squeezed it when he noticed that Jensen was trembling. From the iconoscope, President Davies rich voice rolled out over the audience.

"First, citizens, I wish you a grand Yule, and a prosperous New Year. This has been a year of plenty for all citizens. Our nation continues to be a beacon in the darkness, and that is because of you, citizens. Your faith, your devotion to Columbia, all help to preserve our way of life. Now, I bring you news regarding the institution of Thralldom. Since the time of our grandfathers, when this grand experiment of ours began, thralls have provided us with a great blessing, and now, we are set to move our nation and thralldom on to a brand new phase. Our good and dear departed Patricia Padalecki, and her associates, had worked hard throughout this last year to bring about a change, and we have thought long and hard regarding these changes. In the end, we decided it was in the best interest of the nation to approve the changes asked for, and they are now written into our law."

The president fell silent, looking about the great hall with a solemn expression. After a moment, he held up a rolled and sealed parchment. With a flourish, he took a knife and broke the thick, red wax seal and spread the parchment across the podium. Looked into the camera again, giving the effect of looking all the observers in the eye. "Citizens, this is the new law. 

All those of you who hold indentured thralls that have ten or less years as their term of servitude, are to summarily release these indentured. Their goods that have been held for the duration of their sentence will be returned to them by our new law, minus, of course, what it cost to support them. Their names are also to be removed from any rolls of the indentured, their servitude is to be stricken from any _public_ record. So let it be announced in every corner of our nation. The indentured thrall sentenced to service of more than ten years, those names are also removed from any rolls of the indentured, but now are to be installed in the books of the born thrall; any properties held, after the cost of support is deducted, will be properties bequeathed to the families of the former indentured, now thrall for life, and to be viewed the same as any of the born thrall. So it is announced to every state of the Republic of America. Mrs. Padalecki, may she forever rest in peace, worked tirelessly to give us this great gift, one could say that she gave her life in interest of the growth and continued prosperity of our great nation of Columbia. I would like now to lead the Republic in a prayer of thanks, hope, and devotion for all our fellow citizens."

A few thralls crashed to their knees, a quiet weeping and moaning led to the thralls being quickly ejected from the room. 

Jensen took control of the little ones—swiftly shooing them ahead of him. He tried not to alarm the little ones as they had no real idea of what was going on, but he felt like an automaton, mindlessly going through the motions. He was frozen in a state of horror, totally overcome with the pain of having been betrayed by the nation, who was supposed to look after the thralls, and betrayed by the person he'd thought had had their best interest in mind. 

He walked swiftly to the kitchen, shedding his confused charges there, walked past the hearth and the thralls' tables set up with treats, kept striding right through the service doors, kept walking on and on until he was deep in the garden; came to a stop with the bitter wind clawing at him, biting into him and sucking the heat from his bones. If he stood here long enough, maybe, hopefully, he'd freeze to death….

Mark was suddenly behind him. The man grabbed him by his shoulders, swung Jensen around and into his arms. "They lied! This was the opposite of what Mistress fought for, I promise you that, Lucky—on my heart I swear it."

Jen stared at him, not really hearing him, not really feeling the arms around him. He was dead inside. His heart, his soul—frozen, dead. If Mark wanted to believe the Mistress had not engineered this horrific cancellation of any poor rights thralls had, fine. Jensen certainly had no right to disagree.

* * * 

When Jensen returned to his master's room, Jared was dead to the world, fully dressed, and sprawled across his bed like he'd been thrown into it. He was snoring, drooling into his pillows. He stank of too much beer and whiskey, of perfume and worse.

Jensen undressed quietly, he folded his clothes away neatly into his alcove. He dimmed the lights, then walked over to his master's bed. He leaned over it, staring down at Jared, watching the rise and fall of his chest and the way his breath fluttered the fabric of his pillowcase. He should be waking his master; at the least he should take Jared's clothes off—his boots. Jensen stared down at him, reaching out to rest a fingertip on his chest before finally turning to his alcove. He dropped down, burrowing under his blankets. He pressed his face into his pillows, and wondered, for a moment, if it was possible to smother oneself. Keeping one ear out for Jared, he eventually fell into a fitful sleep.


End file.
